One Scandalous Kiss (10 page)

Jess had never seen a more appealing man in her life.

“I came to Hartwell in your aunt’s carriage. She should explain why I’m here.” She called to him more loudly than necessary, considering the distance between them, in a strident voice she’d never used in her life. She lowered her tone before continuing. “I am sorry for intruding on your . . .” What did one call it when a man stood pacing and gesticulating to himself in the open air? “On your walk, my lord.”

“Wait, Miss Wright. If you please.”

She’d turned back toward Hartwell, determined to stride away as fast as her legs would transport her. But his voice held just the right note of aristocratic haughtiness to make her stiffen and snap her gaze back to him. She was half tempted to tell him he had no right to command her. Yet here, on the grounds of his estate, it seemed a foolish argument.

“You have a most irritating habit of ignoring my questions and running away to avoid answers.”

He spoke as if they shared a long acquaintance, as if he made a habit of questioning her and she a habit of avoiding him. The notion of familiarity between them was so silly, it nearly made her laugh. But he looked too serious for laughter.

The only reply on the tip of her tongue had nothing to do with his accusation, but she couldn’t hold back from expressing it.

“My father used to do that.”

His eyebrows dipped down in a dark vee, just as they had the moment before she’d kissed him. The memory sparked a hum, a vibration of energy in her body, warming her, making her tremble. She prayed Lord Grimsby didn’t notice the effect he had on her.

“I beg your pardon.”

He wasn’t begging at all, and his emotions were no longer difficult to discern. He was irritated. Crossing his arms and tilting his head back a fraction, he put that chiseled aristocratic chin of his on full display. One dark brow jumped up in a gesture that seemed to signal disdain and displeasure all at once.

It made the laughter Jess had stifled moments before bubble up and burst out in a choked sound, resulting in a smile she couldn’t contain.

“He talked to himself and paced about flapping his arms while he did it.”

Lord Grimsby opened his mouth as if to protest, perhaps to deny her comparison. It was rather daring of her to compare a noble lord to her poor, unlucky bookseller father.

But the memory of her father and the quirk the two men shared inspired a measure of mirth she hadn’t allowed herself in such a long time.

“It was a rather charming habit, really.”

She turned then and left him, never looking back to see if he was gazing at her in that haughty manner of his as she retreated or if he’d returned to flapping his arms, talking to himself, and pacing. Whatever his reaction, Jessamin suspected their awkward encounter would mean the end of her employment with his aunt. And perhaps that was for the best. As he’d said, she didn’t belong here, in his home or his world.

She stumbled on a stone hidden in the deep grass and kicked at it with the toe of her boot. The notion of parting ways with Lady Stamford brought a wave of sadness that made Jess’s throat tight and tears gather at the corners of her eyes. The lady had been kind to her, offering an opportunity when she’d needed it most. Lady Stamford had never even asked her to explain the events in Mayfair, and despite Jess’s inadequacies as a companion, the countess praised and encouraged her each and every day.

As the tower and gables of Hartwell came into view, another anxiety weighed on her mind. What if Lady Stamford refused to dismiss her? This might be the first of many awkward encounters with Lord Grim during the fortnight house party.

She’d need a new strategy for avoiding him. One that didn’t involve giving in to the urge to approach him, no matter the pull, like a magnet drawing metal, that seemed to rise up whenever he was near.

Surely she could survive two weeks near him for a wage that would secure her future.

Chapter Eleven

L
UCIUS STOMPED
UP
the wide staircase leading to the doors of Hartwell, swung the left door abruptly enough to make a housemaid jump like a frightened cat, and nearly slid on the damnably well-polished marble floor before reaching the haven of his study.

But he didn’t find solitude beyond its door. One glance at the scene before him and his frustration whooshed out in a deep sigh. His aunt stood embracing his father, a tear trickling down her cheek. Though it was tempting to think of his father as his worry alone—heaven forgive him, his burden—Augusta’s presence reaffirmed that his father was more. He was a brother, a man his aunt looked up to since childhood, the eldest son, and the man who bore the titles and owned the estates that had been in their family for generations.

His aunt must have sensed his presence. She turned to him and hastily lifted a handkerchief to her cheek before releasing his father.

Maxim settled back in his chair by the fire, and Lucius noticed the old man was a bit glassy-eyed too. Though it hadn’t been long since the siblings had seen each other, Lucius knew his father’s illness caused Augusta to worry unceasingly about him.

Augusta approached and embraced Lucius, kissing each cheek before looking up at him expectantly.

“Is all ready for our visitor?”

“Only one? I thought you had a list. A list I’d like to have a glance at, by the way. And, yes, everything should be ready in time for Miss Sedgwick’s arrival. Have you not seen the staff scurrying about every which way?”

She smiled, a bright, charming expression usually reserved for persuasion. She was clearly pleased, and Lucius surged with pride for Hartwell and the diligence of its staff. He allowed himself a momentary quirk of his mouth, but his expression fell as he recalled the matter between them.

“Speaking of guests, I wonder if we might speak of the companion you acquired since we were last in London.”

Lucius leaned toward her as he spoke, lowering his voice so his father didn’t hear.

Augusta turned to glance at Maxim, but he sat gazing at the low, flickering flames beyond the grate.

She whispered her reply. “Mightn’t we save this conversation for later? Let’s take tea first. Both of you can come up to my sitting room.” She turned to Lucius’s father again. “Would you care to join us for tea, Maxim?”

Just as his father opened his mouth to answer, Mrs. Ives appeared in the doorway of the study.

“Sorry to intrude, my lord. I came to fetch Lord Dunthorpe.”

Lucius glanced at the clock on the mantel and noted the time of his father’s daily nap. Schedules and regularity seemed to ease his condition, while exceptions and change kindled the chaos in his mind. Lucius knew Mrs. Ives was making an effort at discretion by not mentioning her reason for collecting his father.

Lady Stamford looked crestfallen, but Lucius watched as his father dutifully rose from his chair and shuffled toward the door, patting his sister on the arm as he passed. He grinned at Mrs. Ives as he approached her, apparently quite content to stick to his schedule and take his daily respite.

“Ah!”

Lucius and Augusta turned their gazes toward the door, surprised by Maxim’s outburst.

His father pointed a finger toward his sister. “Your companion.”

“Yes? My companion. What of her?”

Augusta shot Lucius a chastising glance. Clearly his whispers hadn’t escaped Father’s keen hearing.

Maxim’s eyes lit with amusement as if terribly pleased with himself. “I’ll wager she has auburn hair,” he said as he followed Mrs. Ives out the door.

“What the devil was that about?” Augusta watched her brother exit with a smile on her face.

“The man is far more cunning than any of us suspect.”

Augusta let loose a laugh, full-bodied and throaty, the kind she used only among friends and family.

“I’ve always known his crafty ways. You have no notion how he tormented me as child.” She looked wistful for a moment and Lucius found it difficult to be truly angry with her.

But he had to address the matter of Miss Wright.

“How could you bring her here? She shouldn’t be here.”

Never mind that he’d stared at the back of the new housemaid not an hour ago, convincing himself it was Jessamin Wright, and letting the opposite notion tease at his mind.

Augusta frowned at him a moment as if unsure of whom he spoke, but then she stood up a bit straighter and met his gaze squarely.

“Miss Wright is my companion, my employee, not my captive. I assure you she came very much of her own volition.”

Lucius indicated the two chairs arranged before the fire, and Augusta swept toward the one his father had vacated. When they were both settled, Lucius arranged his elbows on the chair’s arms and steepled his fingertips under his chin.

“Do you think it appropriate?” Even Aunt Augusta couldn’t think it appropriate for the woman who’d kissed him so publicly to reside at Hartwell during a house party designed to introduce him to a potential bride. Distraction didn’t suffice to describe how unsettling Miss Wright’s presence would be. Hell, she already was.

He picked at invisible fluff on the arm of his jacket, swiping down the fabric before grasping the buttons at his cuff and settling them so that the etched design on each aligned.

His aunt sighed wearily, as if his concern with propriety was a very great bore.

Of course, Augusta did not know, could not know, that Miss Wright had hardly left his mind since she’d marched up to him at the gallery in Mayfair.

“Propriety is more flexible than you might imagine. It often bends to practicality. The girl needed employment. I needed a companion. She’s helped me immensely in the last few weeks. I’m not certain I could do without her now.”

Now it was Lucius’s turn to sigh. His aunt seemed determined to mistake his meaning.

“I am not referring to the woman’s suitability as your companion, though many would question it. I am referring to—”

“You kissed her.” His aunt interrupted him in a tone implying he could say nothing that she hadn’t already considered and dismissed, and she wished to put the whole subject to rest.

“I did not kiss her!”

It wasn’t true and his lips burned, accusing him of the lie. Other parts of his body ached too, and he stood up, trying to ease the tension, the frustration thoughts of Miss Wright always inspired.

He turned toward the mantel and arranged the items on the deep marble shelf—framed photographs, porcelain dogs, a beautifully sculpted crystal rose his mother had purchased in France. He spaced the items evenly, turned the photographs just so, and placed the dogs near each other, both facing toward the window on the west wall. Whoever tended the room apparently had little concern for replacing the items with care after dusting.

He sensed the weight of his aunt’s gaze and turned to find her watching him with a knowing expression curving her lips. He bristled under the examination.

“My goodness, Lucius. Do you fear the girl? Has she truly affected you so?”

Lucius couldn’t answer, could barely consider the question. He turned away, refusing to let his aunt read his thoughts, as she was far too talented at doing.

“Jessamin is an honorable young woman. I’d wager she’d never even kissed a man before. Her skill can’t have been so great as to scramble your wits.”

It was too much. Hearing her name spoken with such warm familiarity by his aunt—to hear her name at all. And discussing kissing, that kiss in particular, with the woman he held in as high esteem as his own mother. It was all too much, and Lucius wanted nothing more than to head out for another walk, a longer one this time, up hills and over ravines, until he’d exhausted body and mind and couldn’t manage a single thought about women or dowries or Miss Wright’s auburn hair. But he heard himself speaking, felt the words reverberating in his chest, playing across his tongue—the truth, unvarnished and irrepressible.

“It was an unpracticed kiss. Completely unexpected. It was . . . singular.”

He expected his aunt to retort, but she said nothing. Lucius turned to find her staring at him, mouth agape, as if he’d just made an astounding admission.

“What is it?” He was afraid to ask, uncertain he’d like her answer.

Augusta merely shook her head as if to clear her thoughts.

“I’ve no doubt there have been half a dozen scandals in London since the incident in Mayfair. Infamy is a fickle mistress, my boy. She’ll soon tire of you. There are precious few who know that my Miss Wright is the young woman from the gallery, and I am confident of their discretion. And most especially of hers.”

His aunt could fight her corner unlike anyone he’d ever known, and her lack of concern about the propriety of the situation reassured him. A bit. But it did nothing to quell the disturbingly satisfying sense of knowing Miss Wright would be at Hartwell for two weeks. He should not be pleased. He closed his eyes a moment and tried to rouse a sense of horror, a measure of indignation. But in his mind’s eye, a vision of Miss Wright blotted out all else. He saw her as she’d looked in the meadow, cheeks flushed, green eyes turned to jade in the sunlight, strands of her fiery hair fluttering in the breeze.

“Miss Sedgwick arrives soon. She may be here within three days.”

Miss Sedgwick.
Lucius’s mind was so clouded with thoughts of Jessamin Wright it took a moment to remember who Miss Sedgwick was—who she was and who she might one day become.

“You don’t have to marry her. I sense she wished for a trip to England as much as a marriage proposal. Perhaps you will not suit each other.” His aunt spoke the words so quietly he could almost imagine it wasn’t her voice but his own conscience whispering words he wished to hear.

It was nonsense. Marrying Miss Sedgwick was a practical solution. She was wellborn, well educated, and almost unimaginably wealthy. Her wealth would secure Hartwell’s future. With her dowry, there would be no more leaky roofs or crumbling masonry. And the funds would not merely repair Hartwell, they would provide for repairs on the tenant housing, and maintenance of the lands and outbuildings that had been neglected for years.

He would marry her. It was his duty, and producing an heir and restoring the estate would ease Father’s mind. Miss Sedgwick’s father was a self-made New Yorker but he’d married a viscount’s daughter, and May’s parents had ensured their daughter received a thoroughly classical education, including travel in Europe and time spent at a ladies’ seminary. She was an ideal match. Best of all, Miss Sedgwick reputedly loathed the countryside and wished for nothing more than a title and a London town house.

Lucius counted on her predilection and imagined them spending much of their time apart, she in London and he at Hartwell, preventing her from observing any of his father’s more extreme behaviors. In marrying her, he hoped to do his duty and protect his father at the same time.

For the satisfaction of doing his duty and succeeding in the role that had been thrust upon him, surely he could steer clear of Jessamin Wright for a fortnight.

“She seems a perfect choice for a countess.”

Perhaps it was some hitch in his tone, a note of insincerity. A lack of enthusiasm, as his father had so astutely observed. His aunt stood and approached him, then laid a hand on his arm. When he looked at her, he read pity in her light blue eyes.

Lord, how he loathed pity.
Don’t pity me.
Miss Wright’s words that night in the carriage came back to him. On that point, she had the right of it.

“Lucius . . .” Whatever she wished to say was apparently unspeakable. His aunt paused and he waited, but she said nothing more.

“My options are few. We can no longer put off repairs, and even if the income from the estate could bear the cost, there is still the matter of maintaining Hartwell. I’ve initiated some promising investments, but Father refuses to consider our best option.”

She shook her head, and Lucius couldn’t divine whether it was a gesture of sympathy or the same disagreement his father had expressed.

“Our father would never consider selling off Dunthorpe lands either.”

Tradition, choosing a path because it was the one that had already been worn, was the worst sort of argument and one that didn’t persuade Lucius at all. Perhaps he’d worked too long in his uncle’s London office, where he’d been encouraged to trust his gut as often as his business acumen to take risks when making investments.

Here at Hartwell, he was essentially his father’s steward, and that meant respecting the earl’s wishes regarding the estate, even if the man’s commitment to tradition seemed outmoded.

Marrying Mother, with her generous Buchanan dowry, had allowed his father to bolster the estate’s coffers. Was it any wonder the same was expected of him?

“You’ve chosen well, Aunt Augusta, as I knew you would. And what else shall I do? What other choice do I have? Miss Wright, perhaps?”

It was the most outrageous remark he’d made in years. It opposed all of his father’s expectations, every matchmaking effort on his aunt’s part, and every goal he had for Hartwell. But he savored his subversive moment and the sound of her name on his tongue.

His aunt didn’t reply in words, but a series of emotions swept over her face—confusion, surprise, pure bewilderment. She hadn’t meant he should consider Miss Wright at all.

Then her eyebrows shot skyward as she emitted a squeak.

“Jessamin!”

The woman herself stood just inside the room.

J
ESS HAD NO
notion what Lord Grimsby might be considering her for, but the look of guilt on his face—a sort of panicked grimace as if she’d caught him with his hand in the biscuit tin—made her suspect it couldn’t be for any fine purpose.

As Lady Stamford had addressed her, or rather shrieked at her, Jess tried to ignore Lord Grimsby altogether and direct her attention at her employer.

This might be the moment of her dismissal, and she steeled herself to accept it.

“My lady, you asked me to request tea service in your sitting room.” Odd how her own voice sounded strange to her ears when spoken under the viscount’s scrutiny. It shook and teetered a bit. Very disconcertingly, in fact. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and tried again. “And you wished for me to bring you the guest list for the house party, but I couldn’t find it in your rooms.”